Soup : Get a spoon and eat it

The summer had inhaled
And held its breath too long.
The winter looked the same,
As if it had never gone,
And through an open window,
Where no curtain hung,
I saw you, I saw you,
Coming back to me.

One begins to read between
The pages of a look.
The sound of sleepy music,
And suddenly, you're hooked.
I saw you, I saw you,
Coming back to me.

You came to stay and live my way,
Scatter my love like leaves in the wind.
You always say that you won't go away,
But I know what it always has been,
It always has been.

A transparent dream
Beneath an occasional sigh...
Most of the time,
I just let it go by.
Now I wish it hadn't begun.
I saw you, I saw you,
Coming back to me.

Strolling the hill,
Overlooking the shore,
I realize I've been here before.
The shadow in the mist
Could have been anyone--
I saw you, I saw you,
Coming back to me.

Small things like reasons
Are put in a jar.
Whatever happened to wishes,
Wished on a star?
Was it just something
That I made up for fun?
I saw you, I saw you,
Coming back to me.

We can't speak or see each other because we are too attracted to each other and get along too well. FUCKING STUPID.

Violated survival list #5.

Texted me today...all torn up, again.

Hows the comfortable, although passionless life in Bretwood? Me? Alone, thanks, fighting the city. Glad to hear your getting clarity. Miss me? Is that what this feeling is? Doesn't seem strong enough.

Here's wishing for you a cosmic spear in the gut, a complete and jagged rip in your heart, the overwhelming sadness of spirit. Kinda like the one I got. Kinda like the one you continue to give me. We fucked up and became of God. We united into one.

I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do with you...the strength of this feeling that you and I fit, that it seems so obvious, that I vibe you; know when your in close proximity, know when your going to call, know what you're going to say, know what your thinking. I feel you in my mind, in my subconscious, I talk to you when I'm sleeping and I can feel that you hear me. I know your doing it too. I feel you in my skin, in my body, walking around in my thoughts. How can any of this be real? I'm losing my fucking mind. This psychic shit has to stop...

1) After work find the gym again,  perform hard-core, muscle tearing work-outs.  Sweat hard. Breathe hard.  Hurt and feel stronger.

2) Go out every Friday and/or Saturday night.  Accept all invitations for dinner, drinks and the like within reason.

3) Make daytime plans for Sunday.
a) work out
b) invite someone over and cook dinner
c) go for hikes

4) Take long baths

5) Keep the cell phone off when out with friends, at work, drinking, when at the club, at the bar, shopping, and especially when home alone.

6) Inform friends of #5 and give them the home number or companion's number.

7) Add false digits and/or symbols into trap person's name to prevent accidental, purposely accidental, habitual, and drunk texting (and god forbid dialing).

8) Rehearse the play, write bullshit, journal, and talk about art, alot.

9) Remove reminder, trapping, heart-wrenching, morbidly consumptive, nostalgic, painful songs from ITunes playlist.

10) Smile.

What a year. Although not finished, it has already divided itself into beautiful synchronistic chapters. This year I "came home" and am re-establishing a spirituality that was previously too existential to trust. I am of my faith, one might say I'm synonymous with it. I know this because it's always been a nagging whisper that questions every hiding move; it is a source of pain and darkness in way of consequence to ignorant/delusional action, it has always driven me and now that I acknowledge, without forgiveness, its consuming drive I have found my God/One/Voice. I trust and surrender, not to be brought to shore, but to be given the vision of land. I am "older" and there is no return. I am different from the last time that I was "alone", the world is different, the surrender is different. There is no end, no destination, no answer; there is a void of infinite potential, a darkness of things not yet manifest waiting for existence. All things in constant flux...definite is a word of a man looking for conclusion. I am in constant admiration of possibility.

He approached me, smiling. An older man. I'd seen him many times. Knew him in the sense that I knew the other regular faces. His life already spent, the wisdom of hindsight remained. Interesting eyes burned brightly...

"You're like an owl", he said very focused as if he wanted me to know he knew, "the rest of them are like they don't know or see; you, your open. You left New Hampshire, at no time were you like this (holds hands close to the sides of his face to indicate blinders) you know you have look around. Owls, they can turn their head, look behind themselves, they see, they watch, no one notices. Us, we have turn and can't care who sees. You've got some tales."

That I do.

"Sometime, me and you, we are going to talk without interruption. The time for long stares of owl sight. You'll tell me what you've seen, my owl, you'll tell me."

He tells me about him and JC, he thanks him everyday. They're tight. JC helps him with the owl sight. "You," he says "got your pen".

I got my pen.

The words and music of Lou Reed echoed all day...it's a perfect day. The weather was beautiful; wind slightly blowing, the heat not so oppressive that one becomes dibilitated by sweat and the need to retreat to someplace dark and cool. As always things lingered in the background of disparity, and yet even they kept their distance.

Today I was alive and felt every breathe as nourishment. It was a perfect day. All things in their place to be pondered when I chose, and if I chose, to wrestle with their thorns. The chaos of Los Angeles screaming from all directions, on my drive to the theater, only centered me in my own silence. Today I existed in the perfect center - alive, a spectator, witness and leader to the life that surrounds me.

We all go through bouts of uncertainty. The ground shakes and we scramble to find solid footing and landmarks that are recognizable; we hope to be found in our weakness and led to safety. I realized today, as so often happens, that safety is only a state of mind. Today was beautiful and waiting, and I only had to realize it.

I am exactly where I'm supposed to be.

What a long road it's been returning to the place that's so familiar...this feeling is like being at last corner before your childhood home comes into view. Anxiously wondering if solace will still be waiting where you left it.

This is the third time that I've been at such a place - God calling me so loudly I can't ignore the voice that rings and reverberates every bone. The hawk is calling me to the feet of the Great Spirit, there is an important task I need to undertake.

Out of chaos comes clarity. Surrender to the wave and it will bring you ashore. Just on the other side of this wave is home.

I am free: pains of longing, eyes still burning from crying, throat sore from wailing, everything purged and clean. On the edge of the void waiting for life to take shape.

Home to heal. Preparing to return on that blue path to God.

http://www.eepybird.com/dcm1.html



Are you feeling fresh? GOOD! Follow it up with this one:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRBkQe_lwak

I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be at this very second, moment, in time. Out of all the options I had in how to start my day, I started it through the choices that brought me to get up at the specific moment I got up, to cook and eat breakfast (choosing what to eat which determined how long it would cook) at which point once cooked deciding to listen to music on a specific station instead of whatching TV which then played a very specific song which has followed me for years. The song portends a reality shift and has always sent me spiraling, ready or not, through a new door of awareness/darkness, an "inscrutable embryonic state": it effectively and efficiently closes the door of what has been up to this point, my reality. A coincidence? Absolutely. It continues...I decide to read and open a book I really haven't paid much attention to but for some reason interests me at this specific moment and open to a page titled "THE MORE ACCIDENTAL, THE MORE TRUE", I place an excerpt of what follows the heading below:

"The more accidental, the more true,...The more accidental the phenomenon, the more divine its nature, for the divine is what has not been envisioned, what cannot be deduced from general rules, not irreducible to them. If we pursue this line of thought to its logical conclusion, we may decide that the most useful sources of illunination are not always holy books, revered dogma, and great truths that everyone has heard. They might also be serendipitous anomalies that erupt into the daily routine and break the trance of ordinary awareness. The tiny spark, is the precise measure of the holiness of the world"

Everyday throughout our lives we ask for signs. "Give me a sign", we say, "I need to know I'm on the right path, need to know I'm not alone, need to know, be shown, need to be validated in the cosmic, unviersal sense, just need a sign". And then one day, suddenly, in the smallest, most significantly divine and perfect way, you are given the sign.

Excerpt from bedside dream journal, presumabley written during a brief waking interlude...

"The stage was set intentionally vacant; a small make-shift drape hangs from a clothes line of weathered twine, effectively closing off stage left: pair of boots and a rusted ladel poke out from the hem. A crocodile sits off-center to stage right, a chain leash holds it securely to the wall. It has been painted gold except for a small circle around each eye. It's eyes, vivid swamp green, cast a warning of danger. It's alive and pissed. It misses the swamp."

I wanted to be a ballerina- spinning round in my peasant skirt feeling the billow of the fabric; I was potential, I was the time spent my mother wished she had back to play with- a do over. I was a beginning that was off to the wrong start. A potential that was never notifyed. I didn't know then that beautiful was much more then just a personal decision. Elaborate, complicated and yet so simple I was everything I wanted to be as long as I was spinning in circles. What role does beauty play? In our lives, in our psyche, in our desire to be loved and honored? I am not beautiful. I am only that which is considered dark, intense, sad and lonely. I fill myself with the potential of possibility that I will someday speak a word that is recognizable. I wish I was potential. I wish my face was not washed into oblivian - one of the populace; familiar, growing older, constant. An adult and yet needing my wounds kissed. I want to cry and be held. I want to scream for no other reason then to be noticed. I want to be a child again. I want to be beautiful. I want to be everything besides what I am right now.

Look beyond right now and you will see nothing in larger doses.

Being the newly enlightened person I am I know that no one wants to read the highly aggressive resurgence of thought usually displayed in my journal (hey, I write to purge demons, so shoot me). Therefore this post is not of that explosive material.

I was thinking. Thinking in terms of pondering life, upbringing, humorous antidotes of childhood and expectations; thinking in terms of old myths and illusions that have formed who I am. "I am" in terms of a 30 something woman: for all intents and purposes single, professional, sexual, confused, awakening woman.

WARNING: CHICK EMOTING
Cinderella's castle is a fucking tunnel.

Nough said. Is it any wonder we're crazy and ravenous? Is it anything less then expected that we'd be starry eyed and confused by the lack of heroes? How can we function when our sexual awakening is fed by VC Andrews books of incest, which to this day the hottest man and lover "Chris" (hello Flowers in the Attic) is the heroines BROTHER? I am bits and pieces of fantasies spawned by illicit books, songs I heard, movies I saw, stories of wanton affairs overheard by my mother's friends spoken in whispers. Daughters are placed in glass castles, given stones, dared to throw as good as a man then scolded for warming up their throwing arm. The funny thing is, we continue to kiss the frogs long after our lips are chapped and bleeding. We're expecting a miracle when we know all magic is dead and gone. Why is it that the myth continues? Because mom wanted it. She wanted it so badly she felt that if she passed it on it might still come true. Poor thing...she wanted it so badly she'd perpetuate the pain and disillusionment to her own blood, just on the chance a prince would come bearing the glass slipper. It didn't happen for her but it can still happen for us, right? We're force fed fantasy and romance but not taught to see it as a dream that has it's place in our hidden world. We are taught to believe in a magic that is of the ages past - a shrouded Merlinesque figure waiting to teach us about our bodies and the torrid heat of passion. How can we not be angry?

The magic of Disney...that crazy little tinkerbell flying around shaking her little fairy wand, her personal spell maker that brings glorious dreams of rainbows and silver. The glorious castle backdrop- Cinderella's fantasy come true. A rescued maiden, a maiden like us, made whole by a glorious prince. A castle of the century: fairy tale pride. A fucking tunnel.

All being said, if I have to be reckoned with a fake castle, I can't think of anything more fitting then to be faced with the reality of it actually being a tunnel. Within the three seconds it takes to walk though it, you know what it really means to be sexually aware as a woman. "Wha happened?" You walk through it five more times in disbelief and finally come to the realization, "Yup this is it. This is all there is." Cinderella's castle. A fucking tunnel. **looks at friend in teary-eyed wanton**"Did you know? How come nobody told me?"

The overwhelming urge to concentrate on spirally toward the within continues to give me new life and energy. Maybe it's a "mid-life" crisis of sorts: crisis only to the shattered and pulverized barriers and layers of caked on plastic LA fallout. My face and body have been covered by a stiff, starched wool and I'm tearing into the light. I got the call home and realized "I" am, I said (Kisses to Neil Diamond)- I am home. The wealth of everything I've always been is calling me to the center and I am ravenous.

That void? That darkness? It's only the void where the things not yet in form live - it's the home of the spirit. How can we as artists not be in shadow of it? We just stood at the gates peering in not realizing the source brought us there to give form to our ideas, intentions, impulses. Those years of standing at the edge and only seeing black was years of seeing the edge of our existing "reality", afraid to enter and change. Interesting how a total surrender began believing it was an act of succumbing to self destruction. Instead the surrender brought a change in consciousness that is bringing a new state of wellness. I am home.

Those of you who own Radiohead's "The Bends" CD, put it on right now. Chances are you've forgotten how beautiful it is and how much of a materpiece of melencholic wonder the song "Fake Plastic Trees" is. I triple dog dare you. The entire CD makes me want to eat the world.

I know someone through this wonderful site can help me, as I know the circles I run in.

Sci-Fi Channel is developing a new pilot and somehow it's fallen on me to hook them up with an Elf (can you tell which "token" or heh hem, "tolkien", casting position I hold in the office ?)

Here's the deal...The person I'm seeking needs to believe they are from an Elf or Elvish clan. This can be in the old Avalon tradition, or can be via "trekker style" belief that they have discovered thier ancestory through the "Lord of the Rings" books/movie series.

This is not a someone who is going to put in a bad or "look at the freak" position. This is a host spot with development opportunity attached to the sci-fi channel.

Alright folks. Where's my fellowship? Give me some love.

When talking to a potential contestant for the reality show I'm currently casting I used the expression "Just viewed your media, Love the look".

Oh Heather, where are you?

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH uhuhuh hahaiehhuauesfffff AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH uhuhhuhieheiahha bbbbbbbeuueuhfbk AH AHHn AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" **falls dead

Where do I go from here? Hard to see and decide the long term when the only long term I desire is very different then the presented options. Need to think.

Scary, as like many college and post college attendees there is a certain figure I have to bring in now. Options could be limited unless I get creative- or find some support (such as the support that I've provided to others): Or I can just control my indivdual universe like I know I have in the past. I need mynd space and clarity. I need to ground.

I correct myself. I don't need to think. No point in thinking...the answer just has to show up.

Truth be told, I'm slightly on edge. Okay, I'm in territory I've never expressed. All you fuckers (qualify that remark, you are all very dear to me, however, fuck you along with your " I know everything cause I'm 26" logic) don't have the slightest idea what it means when you state in your journals the "getting old" submission. AKA I'm feeling old cause i'm past 25, I'm lost cause I'm 26...

Here's the deal. I'm 33 and I'm scared to death because I don't know shit. My body doesn't react the way it used too. 33 and not anything beyond a child. Scared to fucking death because it goes beyond looking for attention and support, it's now or never. My life is facing me in the eye and I'm nervous as hell that I'm a fake. This is what it means to face your future. "This" meaning I can continue and make shit happen,or I'm the living fallout of the pesimist tales and warnings of teachers telling me "only 10% make it". "Who do I want to be" becomes a question that has no answer. All is relative and "who I want to be" changes along with the wind: or does it?

I'm burning alive. I swear to fucking god, I'm burning alive: a self-combustion mess of angst, self-loathing, unrealized potential and complacientcy. My heart palpatates to the promise of scripts yet to be written, scripts half written, and "the big one" that I don't dare to write lest I destroy it. My life is as unspecial and pathetic as any generation X do-good intention. Why can't I be better? Why can't I just be who I want to be? I hurt past any threshold known to man and am still not "there". You have no fucking idea what it means to fear "getting old". The 30s. Mind block or truth they fuck you up like no one knows until you've past it.

This 30 something body hurts. It hurts more when I think of my pending birthday. It hurts continously at the thought of the passing years. I have a fear of death that nails me down like coffin lid. We will be gone without memory of our existence. Nothing followed but an endless stream of tomorrows left to be filled by others.

I guess that's all I wanted to say. It sucks to be growing older when surrounded by people that are considered young. How did I get to this? I want for someone to guide me. I want for someone to be at the end waiting. I don't know who this woman is-this woman I've become but don't recognize. This is not my beautiful life.

Play Boston at my funeral- specifically "more then a feeling". That good for nothing Gray refused. He's "As cold as Ice".